by Tom Clancy
“Can you localize with one ping?”
The sonar chief considered this for a second. “Not enough for a shooting solution, but it’ll give us something.”
“One ping, do it.”
“Aye.” Laval worked on his board briefly, triggering the active elements.
The V. K. Konovalov
Tupolev winced. He had acted too soon. He should have waited until they were past — but then if he had waited that long, he would have had to move, and now he had all three of them hovering nearby, almost still.
The four submarines were moving only fast enough for depth control. The Russian Alfa was pointed southeast, and all four were arrayed in a roughly trapezoidal fashion, open end seaward. The Pogy and the Dallas were to the north of the Konovalov, the Red October was southeast of her.
The Red October
“Somebody just pinged her,” Jones said quietly. “Bearing is roughly northwest, but she isn’t making enough noise for us to read her. Sir, if I had to make a bet, I’d say she was pretty close.”
“How do you know that?” Mancuso asked.
“I heard the pulse direct — just one ping to get a range, I think. It was from a BQQ-5. Then we heard the echo off the target. The math works out a couple of different ways, but smart money is he’s between us and our guys, and a little west. I know it’s shaky, sir, but it’s the best we got.”
“Range ten kilometers, perhaps less,” Bugayev commented.
“That’s kinda shaky, too, but it’s as good a starting place as any. Not a whole lot of data. Sorry, Skipper. Best we can do,” Jones said.
Mancuso nodded and returned to control.
“What gives?” Ryan asked. The plane controls were pushed all the way forward to maintain depth. He had not grasped the significance of what was going on.
“There’s a hostile submarine out there.”
“What information do we have?” Ramius asked.
“Not much. There’s a contact northwest, range unknown, but probably not very far. I know for sure it’s not one of ours. Norfolk said this area was cleared. That leaves one possibility. We drift?”
“We drift,” Ramius echoed, lifting the phone. He spoke a few orders.
The October’s engines were providing the power to move the submarine at a fraction over two knots, barely enough to maintain steerage way and not enough to maintain depth. With her slight positive buoyancy, the October was drifting upward a few feet per minute despite the plane setting.
The Dallas
“Let’s move back south. I don’t like the idea of having that Alfa closer to our friend than we are. Come right to one-eight-five, two-thirds,” Chambers said finally.
“Aye aye,” Goodman said. “Helm, right fifteen degrees rudder, come to new course one-eight-five. All ahead two thirds.”
“Right fifteen degrees rudder, aye.” The helmsman turned the wheel. “Sir, my rudder is right fifteen degrees, coming to new course one-eight-five.”
The Dallas’ four torpedo tubes were loaded with three Mark 48s and a decoy, an expensive MOSS (mobile submarine simulator). One of her torpedoes was targeted on the Alfa, but the firing solution was vague. The “fish” would have to do some of the tracking by itself. The Pogy’s two torpedoes were almost perfectly dialed in.
The problem was that neither boat had authority to shoot. Both attack submarines were operating under the normal rules of engagement. They could fire in self-defense only and defend the Red October only by bluff and guile. The question was whether the Alfa knew what the Red October was.
The V. K. Konovalov
“Steer for the Ohio,” Tupolev ordered. “Bring speed to three knots. We must be patient, comrades. Now that the Americans know where we are they will not ping us again. We will move from our place quietly.”
The Konovalov’s bronze propeller turned more quickly. By shutting down some nonessential electrical systems, the engineers were able to increase speed without increasing reactor output.
The Pogy
On the Pogy, the nearest attack boat, the contact faded, degrading the directional bearing somewhat. Commander Wood debated whether or not to get another bearing with active sonar but decided against it. If he used active sonar his position would be like that of a policeman looking for a burglar in a dark building with a flashlight. Sonar pings could well tell his target more than they told him. Using passive sonar was the normal routine in such a case.
Chief Palmer reported the passage of the Dallas down their port side. Both Wood and Chambers decided not to use their underwater telephones to communicate. They could not afford to make any noise now.
The Red October
They had been creeping along for a half hour now. Ryan was chain-smoking at his station, and his palms were sweating as he struggled to maintain his composure. This was not the sort of combat he had been trained for, being trapped inside a steel pipe, unable to see or hear anything. He knew that there was a Soviet submarine out there, and he knew what her orders were. If her captain realized who they were — then what? The two captains, he thought, were amazingly cool.
“Can your submarines protect us?” Ramius asked.
“Shoot at a Russian sub?” Mancuso shook his head. “Only if he shoots first — at them. Under the normal rules, we don’t count.”
“What?” Ryan was stunned.
“You want to start a war?” Mancuso smiled, as though he found this situation amusing. “That’s what happens when warships from two countries start exchanging shots. We have to smart our way out of this.”
“Be calm, Ryan,” Ramius said. “This is our usual game. The hunter submarine tries to find us, and we try not to be found. Tell me, Captain Mancuso, at what range did you hear us off Iceland?”
“I haven’t examined your chart closely, Captain,” Mancuso mused. “Maybe twenty miles, thirty or so kilometers.”
“And then we were traveling at thirteen knots — noise increases faster than speed. I think we can move east, slowly, without being detected. We use the caterpillar, move at six knots. As you know, Soviet sonar is not so efficient as American. Do you agree, Captain?”
Mancuso nodded. “She’s your boat, sir. May I suggest northeast? That ought to put us behind our attack boats inside an hour, maybe less.”
“Yes.” Ramius hobbled over to the control board to open the tunnel hatches, then went back to the phone. He gave the necessary orders. In a minute the caterpillar motors were engaged and speed was increasing slowly.
“Rudder right ten, Ryan,” Ramius said. “And ease the plane controls.”
“Rudder right ten, sir, easing the planes, sir.” Ryan carried the orders out, glad that they were doing something.
“Your course is zero-four-zero, Ryan,” Mancuso said from the chart table.
“Zero-four-zero, coming right through three-five-zero.” From the helmsman’s seat he could hear the water swishing down the portside tunnel. Every minute or so there was an odd rumble that lasted three or four seconds. The speed gauge in front of him passed through four knots.
“You are frightened, Ryan?” Ramius chuckled.
Jack swore to himself. His voice had wavered. “I’m a little tired, too.”
“I know it is difficult for you. You do well for a new man with no training. We will be late to Norfolk, but we shall get there, you will see. Have you been on a missile boat, Mancuso?”
“Oh, sure. Relax, Ryan. This is what boomers do. Somebody comes lookin’ for us, we just disappear.” The American commander looked up from the chart. He had set coins at the estimated positions of the three other subs. He considered marking it up more but decided not to. There were some very interesting notations on this coastal chart — like programmed missile-firing positions. Fleet intelligence would go ape over this sort of information.
The Red October was moving northeast at six knots now. The Konovalov was coming southeast at three. The Pogy was heading south at two, and the Dallas south at fifteen. All four submarines were now within a si
x-mile-diameter circle, all converging on about the same point.
The V. K. Konovalov
Tupolev was enjoying himself. For whatever reason, the Americans had chosen to play a conservative game that he had not expected. The smart thing, he thought, would have been for one of the attack boats to close in and harrass him, allowing the missile sub to pass clear with the other escort. Well, at sea nothing was ever quite the same twice. He sipped at a cup of tea as he selected a sandwich.
His sonar michman noted an odd sound in his sonar set. It only lasted a few seconds, then was gone. Some far-off seismic rumble, he thought at first.
The Red October
They had risen because of the Red October’s positive trim, and now Ryan had five degrees of down-angle on the diving planes to get back down to a hundred meters. He heard the captains discussing the absence of a thermocline. Mancuso explained that it was not unusual for the area, particularly after violent storms. They agreed that it was unfortunate. A thermal layer would have helped their evasion.
Jones was at the aft entrance of the control room, rubbing his ears. The Russian phones were not very comfortable. “Skipper, I’m getting something to the north, comes and goes. I haven’t gotten a bearing lock on it.”
“Whose?” Mancuso asked.
“Can’t say, sir. The active sonar isn’t too bad, but the passive stuft just isn’t up to the drill, Skipper. We’re not blind, but close to it.”
“Okay, if you hear something, sing out.”
“Aye aye, Captain. You got some coffee out here? Mr. Bugayev sent me for some.”
“I’ll have a pot sent in.”
“Right.” Jones went back to work.
The V. K. Konovalov
“Comrade Captain, I have a contact, but I do not know what it is,” the michman said over the phone.
Tupolev came back, munching on his sandwich. Ohios had been acquired so rarely by the Russians — three times to be exact, and in each case the quarry had been lost within minutes — that no one had a feel for the characteristics of the class.
The michman handed the captain a spare set of phones. “It may take a few minutes, Comrade. It comes and goes.”
The water off the American coast, though nearly isothermal, was not entirely perfect for sonar systems. Minor currents and eddies set up moving walls that reflected and channeled sound energy on a nearly random basis. Tupolev sat down and listened patiently. It took five minutes for the signal to come back.
The michman’s hand waved. “Now, Comrade Captain.”
His commanding officer looked pale.
“Bearing?”
“Too faint, and too short to lock in — but three degrees on either bow, one-three-six to one-four-two.”
Tupolev tossed the headphones on the table and went forward. He grabbed the political officer by the arm and led him quickly to the wardroom.
“It’s Red October!”
“Impossible. Fleet Command said that his destruction was confirmed by visual inspection of the wreckage.” The zampolit shook his head emphatically.
“We have been tricked. The caterpillar acoustical signature is unique, Comrade. The Americans have him, and he is out there. We must destroy him!”
“No. We must contact Moscow and ask for instructions.”
The zampolit was a good Communist, but he was a surface ship officer who didn’t belong on submarines, Tupolev thought.
“Comrade Zampolit, it will take several minutes to approach the surface, perhaps ten or fifteen to get a message to Moscow, thirty more for Moscow to respond at all — and then they will request confirmation! An hour in all, two, three? By that time Red October will be gone. Our original orders are operative, and there is no time to contact Moscow.”
“But what if you are wrong?”
“I am not wrong, Comrade!” the captain hissed. “I will enter my contact report in the log, and my recommendations. If you forbid this, I will log that also! I am right, Comrade. It will be your head, not mine. Decide!”
“You are certain?”
“Certain!”
“Very well.” The zampolit seemed to deflate. “How will you do this?”
“As quickly as possible, before the Americans have a chance to destroy us. Go to your station, Comrade.” The two men went back to the control room. The Konovalov’s six bow torpedo tubes were loaded with Mark C 533-millimeter wire-guided torpedoes. All they needed was to be told where to go.
“Sonar, search forward on all active systems!” the captain ordered.
The michman pushed the button.
The Red October
“Ouch.” Jones’ head jerked around. “Skipper, we’re being pinged. Port side, midships, maybe a little forward. Not one of ours, sir.”
The Pogy
“Conn, sonar, the Alfa’s got the boomer! The Alfa bearing is one-nine-two.”
“All ahead two-thirds,” Wood ordered immediately.
“All ahead two-thirds, aye.”
The Pogy’s engines exploded into life, and soon her propeller was thrashing the black water.
The V. K. Konovalov
“Range seven thousand, six hundred meters. Elevation angle zero,” the michman reported. So, this was the submarine they had been sent to hunt, he thought. He had just donned a headset that allowed him to report directly to the captain and fire control officer.
The starpom was the chief fire control supervisor. He quickly entered the data into the computer. It was a simple problem of target geometry. “We have a solution for torpedoes one and two.”
“Prepare to fire.”
“Flooding tubes.” The starpom flipped the switches himself, reaching past the petty officer. “Outer torpedo tube doors are open.”
“Recheck firing solution!” Tupolev said.
The Pogy
The Pogy’s sonar chief was the only man to hear the transient noise.
“Conn, sonar, Alfa contact — she just flooded tubes, sir! Target bearing is one-seven-nine.”
The V. K. Konovalov
“Solution confirmed, Comrade Captain,” the starpom said.
“Fire one and two,” Tupolev ordered.
“Firing one…Firing two.” The Konovalov shuddered twice as compressed air charges ejected the electrically powered torpedoes.
The Red October
Jones heard it first. “High-speed screws port side!” he said loudly and clearly. “Torpedoes in the water port side!”
“Ryl nalyeva!” Ramius ordered automatically.
“What?” Ryan asked.
“Left, rudder left!” Ramius pounded his fist on the rail.
“Left full, do it!” Mancuso said.
“Left full rudder, aye.” Ryan turned the wheel all the way and held it down. Ramius was spinning the annunciator to flank speed.
The Pogy
“Two fish running,” Palmer said. “Bearing is changing right to left. I say again, torpedo bearing changing right to left rapidly on both fish. They’re targeted on the boomer.”
The Dallas
The Dallas heard them, too. Chambers ordered flank speed and a turn to port. With torpedoes running his options were limited, and he was doing what American practice taught, heading someplace else — very fast.
The Red October
“I need a course!” Ryan said.
“Jonesy, give me a bearing!” Mancuso shouted.
“Three-two-zero, sir. Two fish heading in,” Jones responded at once, working his controls to nail the bearing down. This was no time to screw up.
“Steer three-two-zero, Ryan,” Ramius ordered, “if we can turn so fast.”
Thanks a lot, Ryan thought angrily, watching the gyrocompass click through three-five-seven. The rudder was hard over, and with the sudden increase in power from the caterpillar motors, he could feel feedback flutter through the wheel.
“Two fish heading in, bearing is three-two-zero, I say again bearing is constant,” Jones reported, much cooler than he felt. “Here we go, guys…”
The Pogy
Her tactical plot showed the October, the Alfa, and the two torpedoes. The Pogy was four miles north of the action.
“Can we shoot?” the exec asked.
“At the Alfa?” Wood shook his head emphatically. “No, dammit. It wouldn’t make a difference anyway.”
The V. K. Konovalov
The two Mark C torpedoes were charging at forty-one knots, a slow speed for this range, so that they could be more easily guided by the Konovalov’s sonar system. They had a projected six-minute run, with one minute already completed.
The Red October
“Okay, coming through three-four-five, easing the rudder off,” Ryan said.
Mancuso kept quiet now. Ramius was using a tactic that he didn’t particularly agree with, turning into the fish. It offered a minimum target profile, but it gave them a simpler geometric intercept solution. Presumably Ramius knew what Russian fish could do. Mancuso hoped so.
“Steady on three-two-zero, Captain,” Ryan said, eyes locked on the gyro repeater as though it mattered. A small voice in his brain congratulated him for going to the head an hour earlier.
“Ryan, down, maximum down on the diving planes.”
“All the way down.” Ryan pushed the yoke to the stops. He was terrified, but even more frightened of fouling up. He had to assume that both commanders knew what they were about. There was no choice for him. Well, he thought, he did know one thing. Guided torpedoes can be tricked. Like radar signals that are aimed at the ground, sonar pulses can be obscured, especially when the sub they are trying to locate is near the bottom or the surface, areas where the pulses tend to be reflected. If the October dove she could lose herself in an opaque field — presuming she got there fast enough.
The V. K. Konovalov
“Target aspect has changed, Comrade Captain. Target is now smaller,” the michman said.
Tupolev considered this. He knew everything there was on Soviet combat doctrine — and knew that Ramius had written a good deal of it. Marko would do what he taught all of us to do, Tupolev thought. Turn into the oncoming weapons to minimize target cross-section and dive for the bottom to become lost in the confused echoes. “Target will be attempting to dive into the bottom-capture field. Be alert.”
